


A Horse, a Mouse, and a Cheese

by ComplicatedLight



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Crack, Gen, The prompt made me do it, Utterly Ridiculous, You'll never eat Stilton again
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-26
Updated: 2013-02-26
Packaged: 2017-12-03 17:00:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/700584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ComplicatedLight/pseuds/ComplicatedLight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“What the hell were we drinking?”</p>
<p>Robbie flashes him a rueful smile. “Some kind of cheese and household cleaner cocktail, from what I can make out.” </p>
<p>“Fuck, no.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Horse, a Mouse, and a Cheese

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dryad](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dryad/gifts).



> Written for the Inspector Lewis Community Happy Lewis Fanworks Fest, for this prompt from [Dryad](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Dryad/pseuds/Dryad/):
> 
> "I'd like to see James and Robbie pissed out of their heads, in public, post-case."
> 
> Thanks to [Lindenharp](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Lindenharp/pseuds/Lindenharp) for ace beta-ing. All errors remain my own.
> 
> Warnings for drunken silliness and hangover-related suffering.

“Sir! Sir!” 

It’s 11 o’clock on a Friday night and Oxfordshire Police’s finest are headed home after a post-case session down the pub – a session that started 6 hours ago. To say they’ve been over-served would be a bit of an understatement. They’ve been walking for about 10 minutes since they left the pub, and Robbie’s still trying to do up his jacket. It’s a simple enough system – one button for every hole – but eventually he has to admit defeat. 

James is a few paces behind him. “Sir!” 

“What?”

“I’ve lost my shoe. And there’s puddles. My sock’ll get wet.” 

He looks forlornly at his feet. Robbie bends down to get a closer look.

“James, man! You’ve lost yer shoe! Where’s yer shoe, lad?” 

“I dunno. I think I might have left it in the pub. I took it off to use as a bat when you were bowling peanuts at me. Must have left it there. Maybe somebody stole it. I’m a crime scene, sir. What should I do?” 

Robbie looks like he’s giving the matter some serious thought, then pats James’ arm.

“Don’t worry Sergeant. I’ll give you a piggyback. Hop on.” He turns his back to James and starts making little dressage movements.

“But sir, your back!” 

“My back’s fine. I’m a horse! I’m a police horse!” A young couple who happen to be walking past as he bellows the latter, look very startled and give him a wide berth. 

So James puts his hands on Robbie’s shoulders and jumps up, but Robbie loses focus and forgets to grab his legs, so he just slides back down. “Whoops-a-daisy!” 

“Come on Sergeant, I haven’t got all day. I’m a very busy police horse!”

So, he has another go, and this time Robbie grabs his legs, and they’re off down the road at a fair trot. Robbie starts singing the theme tune to Black Beauty, and James joins in, even though he doesn’t know the words as well as Robbie, which is interesting, because there never were any words to the tune, so heaven only knows what it is that Robbie’s singing. 

James gives a flick of his imaginary crop and shouts “Giddy-up horsey!” 

“Oi! That’s Defective Inspector Horsey to you!” 

James starts giggling. 

“What?” Robbie comes to a standstill, because apparently although he can sing and trot at the same time, equestrian multi-tasking that involves speech is beyond him. 

“What?!”

“You said Defective Inspector!” James snorts so hard he loses his grip, and ends up in a heap on the pavement behind Robbie. 

It takes the Defective Inspector a few moments to realize he’s lost his jockey. Eventually he finds him (behind being a difficult concept for the over-served), and watches fascinated as James – who appears to be 90% legs – attempts – much like a new-born foal – to get back on his feet. It’s touch and go for a while, and apparently it occurs to neither of them that Robbie could help, but eventually he’s up and good to go. But go where, and how? They both seem to have lost momentum, but then Robbie, showing exactly the kind of initiative you’d expect from a senior officer, sticks his arm out and flags down a passing taxi. James gazes at him with awestruck admiration at the cunningness of his plan – they’re going to get a taxi home – it’s brilliant. They hop in. 

“Where to, gents?”

The taxi driver listens while they attempt to reconstruct an address between them, but as the result has Robbie living in “The lovely stables” with the rest of the address in Latin, he feels fairly confident that he can ignore it.

Eventually, he intervenes. “Do either of you gentlemen have a driving license on you? It’ll have your address on it.” 

They both look at him with childlike wonder – they couldn’t be more impressed if he’d just announced he was taking them to Mars. James finds his license, shows it to the cabbie, and they’re off to James’ flat. 

“You, sir,” Robbie jabs his finger in the cabbie’s shoulder, causing the cab to swerve alarmingly, “You, are a prince amongst men. I salute you.” And he does. 

James yelps – “Oooh! Prince! I love Prince!” 

He starts humming a tune very loudly, and jiggling about, crescendo-ing into the chorus, “Tonight we’re gonna party like it’s 1899! Yeh!” 

For a while he gets caught up in a rambling monologue about celebratory gatherings in Victorian and Edwardian Britain, and Robbie occupies himself with saluting people that they pass in the street.

The taxi pulls up outside James’ building and they pay the driver. James attempts to apologize for their behaviour, which would be nice if he hadn’t have started the apology to the very male, moustachioed cabbie with “Sorry, Miss.” The cab drives off with them waving and saluting. Robbie may have whinnied once or twice for good measure. 

Fifteen minutes later they’re both kneeling in front of James’ door, having failed to get the key to work in the lock. Robbie flashes his warrant card at it and shouts “Open up, it’s a bust. We’re the Sweeney!” with James shushing him as several lights go on in the building. Eventually, they work out through a process of elimination, that if the keys they’ve been trying don’t work (Robbie’s keys), then it must be the other set (James’) that’ll do it. 

So, by midnight, they’re in James’ living room. James has noticed his lack of left shoe again, and is looking very sad about it, but Robbie’s keen to offer support. He sits down on the sofa. 

“James. James! Look! Who needs ‘em, anyway?” 

He pulls his own left shoe off and tosses it high over his shoulder and James cheers. It comes to rest at the back of the top shelf of a bookcase, a fact which neither of them registers. (James will find it 8 months later when he does his annual day of book dusting. It will take him a good 10 minutes and all of his detective’s abilities to work out how his governor’s shoe – of course he recognises it – found its way there.) For now though, they’re both left shoeless, and happy about it. 

“Sir, are you hungry?”

“I am a bit peckish, Sergeant, now you come to mention it. What’ya got?” 

James grins triumphantly. “Cheese!” 

He runs into the kitchen and reappears within the minute with a whole Stilton and two spoons. He plonks the cheese on Robbie’s knee, gives him a spoon, and they have at it. After a couple of mouthfuls, Robbie pauses, looking not quite worried, but certainly thoughtful. 

“I think I’m gonna need something to wash this down with.” 

James nods and goes over to a cupboard in the corner of the room. There’s the sound of clinking bottles and then a jubilant “Yes!” He comes back to the sofa, clutching a bottle of ouzo. Even in his advanced state of inebriation, Robbie is doubtful, but James is insistent. 

“It’s refreshing, like mouthwash. It’ll cleanse your palate for the cheese." 

Well, it’s an excellent point and one that Robbie certainly can’t argue against, so they each have a swig of the aniseed-flavoured brew, and then hit the Stilton with renewed vigour.   

After a while, Robbie pauses. He releases an aniseed-scented belch and then points at James. 

“This is a lot of cheese. Are you a mouse?” He looks genuinely curious. 

James is delighted, and indeed, energised by the idea. He gets up and starts doing laps of the living room chanting “I’m a mouse. I’m a crime-solving mouse.” 

Robbie looks up at him over the now craggy peaks of the Stilton, eyes full of admiration, and takes another swig of ouzo. 

“You’re a crime-solving mouse superhero, that’s what you are. Mouse Boy!” 

James _loves_ it. “Yeh! Mouse Boy!” He punches the air. 

“You need a costume, though. Like Superman.” 

James shoots out the room and after a few minutes of crashing and yelping noises, he reappears, a pair of underpants over his trousers, and a towel tied round his neck, cape-like. He’s about to resume his laps of the room, but Robbie isn’t satisfied yet.

“Where’s your whiskers? Mice have whiskers, don’t they?” 

He rummages in his jacket pocket for a pen, and beckons James over. He gets James to kneel in front of him, elbows resting on the cheese, and draws him a fine set of whiskers. Perfect.

  

                                                      -----------------------

 

Robbie’s woken by the need to pee. Judging by the light it’s pretty early, maybe 6 o’clock. He’s face down on the bed, and doesn’t feel great, to be honest. It’s only when he tries to move though does he get his first real hint at just how not great he is. Every part of him hurts. His head, his stomach, his eyeballs. _Jesus_. And then he burps, and oh, my god – what _is_ that? It’s like sweaty socks and toilet cleaner. _Christ._ If he’s not careful he’s going to lose the lot, right here in his bed. 

And then it dawns on him, as if he doesn’t feel sick enough already – he doesn’t recognise the sheets – he’s not actually in _his_ bed. _Shit._ Also, there’s something stuck to his head – it’s really irritating. He reaches up, careful not to make any sudden movements, and peels what turns out to be a post-it note, off his forehead. It has the word ‘Horsey’ written on it. _What the fuck?_ And then a couple of flashes of last night burst into his brain. Him and James, having a few pints. Something about a shoe. A nice taxi driver. Some Stilton, was it? And that’s it; he really is going to be sick now. He lurches off the bed, recognises that he’s in James’ flat, and makes it to the loo just in time. 

Quarter of an hour later, he wanders back into the bedroom, a glass of water in hand, feeling very shaky but marginally less convinced he’s going to die, and sees James sprawled on the far side of the bed. He’s flat on his back, fully dressed except for one shoe, but with an extra pair of pants to make up for it. He’s sporting a full set of blue whiskers, and a post-it on his forehead that says “Mouse Boy.” He looks about 12 years old. And no matter how ill he feels, Robbie can’t help but laugh. Man alive, they must have had a good night. He’d shake his head in disbelief, but it hurts too much. 

James starts to stir, dragged out of a state of unconsciousness just one step up from a coma, by the sound of Robbie simultaneously laughing and groaning. He opens his eyes and before Robbie can warn him he tries to sit up. A look of horror and incomprehension forms on his face.

Robbie gingerly sits himself down on the edge of the bed next to where James is now panting shallowly, like a dog in pain.

“Try not to burp, lad. Trust me. It’s gonna get worse before it gets better.”

James lowers himself back down again with a whimper. “What the hell were we drinking?” 

Robbie flashes him a rueful smile. “Some kind of cheese and household cleaner cocktail, from what I can make out.” 

“Fuck, no.” James reaches up with a shaky hand to peel the post-it off his head, and squints at it, eventually getting the writing in focus with one eye. It takes a minute for him to recover a few details. A smirk appears on his face and his shoulders start quivering. He really doesn’t want to laugh, he knows it’s going to hurt to laugh, but he can’t help himself. He snorts explosively and immediately regrets it.

Robbie pats his arm. “Easy there, Mouse Boy.”

And that’s it – they collapse against each other, howling with laughter. There are tears streaming down Robbie’s face and James can hardly breath, but every time it seems like they’ve managed to get themselves under control, they look at each other and they’re off again. Eventually they do calm down enough that James can turn and look at Robbie again. James is deathly pale, green almost, and his skin looks waxy in a very unhealthy way, but he has a huge grin on his face. 

“That was the Best. Night. Ever! I'd like to get you a gift to say thank you, sir. How about a nice bunch of carrots?"


End file.
